What Bothers Me?

My mind bothers me, and the World bothers me, the fucked up economic and social systems we have that make a mockery of equality and justice bother me.  I feel jaded and hypocritical all the time now: We deserve to die, and nobody said life was fair, but it’s always been good to me.   Does that make me part of the problem?

I hate being a baby and melodramatic, but I also feel like stopping typing. 

“NOTHING MATTERS,” is this viscous mantra echoing off the inside of my skull, and perhaps it doesn’t.  I’m seeking release from a battle that perhaps only death can achieve, and yet if I know one thing, it is that I don’t want to spend my life like this. 

I WANT things to matter.  I want to matter.

Life is short, and sitting up here day after day after day, cleaning this big house over and over and over as it slowly decays and depreciates before my eyes, I have let myself fall apart too.  I want to be a writer, but I have been haphazard about even trying.  I have engaged in my writing half-ass and half-heartedly, constantly making excuses for why I do not write.

When I do write, I have failed to do much with it.  I have created so much now that are like lost empty vessels, never to carry any water, never to be read by anyone.  I know not why I create them, but perhaps in this sentence I can find the beginning of an answer. 

Each word is a world unto itself, each sentence a solar system, each paragraph a galaxy.  Bringing my universe to life has meaning beyond me as its creator, even though I struggle with its value, or perhaps exactly because I do struggle. 

Yet, I know from my explorations of the heart, God favors the bold.  I want to be bold, and this life feels timid, scared and hiding.  If the world is going to destroy itself, and so far everything in my being tells me it will, then I want to go out in a vivid expansion of light bursting forth from the realization that new things are hard, but they are worth it. 

The seeds of this destruction, are the foreplay of our next conception.

I may be lost, but I’ll never give up.

I do believe, and in believing, I define more about who I am than with anything else. 

I don’t want to be wrong, but if I am, I’d rather believe and be wrong, than to not-believe and be wrong.  To not-believe and be right, would too, be cold consolation for what that means about the true nature of the world, so that's a easy dead end for me to avoid.

No, I want to believe, and I want to be right.  Maybe  I need to let go of the latter and focus on the former, but its hard.  Life is hard, isn’t it?

So much fake rhetorical confidence already oozes from the pores of America, that what is but one more deluded voice, insistent in their proclamations of ultimate victory even when their personal end is already in sight.

What bothers me is that the end is in sight.  But I can’t change that.

So do you keep chugging along, hoping to be wrong, or pull out all the stops, and gamble you are right?